Conventions of War Read Online Free PDF Page A

funicular.
    â€œMaybe a bomb then.” Macnamara was undeterred. “Plant it just inside his gate, detonate it from a distance when he steps in.”
    To Sula this seemed a more attractive proposition. “The bomb would make a lot of noise,” she said. “Break a lot of windows. The Naxids could never pretend it didn’t happen.”
    â€œHere comes someone, our target maybe.”
    Sula tilted her cap brim over her face and busied herself with the contents of her toolbox as she cast covert glances at the three Naxids moving down the broad walk. Two wore the uniforms of the Fleet, the exact color of Zanshaa’s viridian sky, with the red cross-belts and armbands of the Military Constabulary. The third was in the brown jacket of the civil service, with badges of high rank and what seemed to be the orange and gold sash of a High Court judge over one shoulder.
    â€œGood of him to walk home,” Sula said.
    â€œIt’s a nice day, why not?”
    â€œShall we follow?”
    They picked up their tools and strolled out of the Garden of Scents. The Naxids moved rapidly on their four feet—Sula had never seen one move slowly unless he was injured—and they had already sped past by the time she and Macnamara left the park. One of the Constabulary guards looked over her shoulder at them as they came out of the park gate but saw little of interest; she turned back to follow the judge, and her jacket flashed a bead-pattern to her partner.
    â€œI wish I knew what she just said,” Macnamara muttered.
    The black beaded scales on a Naxid’s torso and long back were capable of a flashing red, and bead-patterns were used as a form of auxiliary communication. The chameleon-weave fabric of the Naxids’ uniforms duplicated the patterns on the scales beneath, so even Naxids in uniform were capable of communicating silently in a private language that few non-Naxids could read.
    â€œI doubt she said anything interesting,” Sula said.
    â€œAre you sure that’s our judge?” Macnamara asked. “I can’t tell them apart, usually.”
    â€œI’m reasonably certain,” Sula said. “I got a glimpse of his face as he went past and it looked right to me.” She offered the world a chill smile. “But even if he’s not the judge we’re after, he’s important enough to rate a couple guards. As far as I’m concerned, that makes him a target.”
    The Naxids crossed to the opposite side of the boulevard, where the Makish Palace waited. Sula and Macnamara remained on their own side of the street and watched with what she hoped was an appropriate level of disinterest. The judge passed through an elaborate fence of gleaming silver alloy, then entered the house through the formal garden out front. One guard went into the palace with him, and the other stationed herself in the garden.
    Sula’s eye had already moved on to the building next to the Makish Palace, another ornate structure, a palace of mellow gold sandstone with an intricate, carved facade of radiating, interlinking lines. The place was obviously shut down, and the garden out front had run riot.
    â€œNo obvious security besides the two guards,” Macnamara said.
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    Macnamara repeated his statement. Sula looked at the abandoned palace again.
    â€œI’ve got an idea,” she said.
    A gold-accented door opened in front of Sula, the door to a private club. In a whiff of tobacco smoke a well-dressed Terran, braided lapels and fashionably pleated trouser front, stepped out of the club and glanced left and right as he made a minor adjustment to his cuffs.
    The door closed behind him. His mouth gaped under its narrow little mustache. “Lady Sula!” he gasped.
    She stepped forward, took his arm, and steered him down the street. Macnamara, suddenly alert, kept a wary eye behind.
    â€œYou’re dead!” the man cried.
    â€œFor all’s sake,